My love’s grown old

The fires run cold

My passion spent

In giving vent

As we drift along

To winter’s end.

For we walk together

And apart

And cannot change the picture.

Where once we would have wrestled with the world

We must now accept it.

It now takes all the time

To fashion a single brushstroke

That may not alter sense

Or produce a single joke.

The meaning has been drained

Into the mundane.

OPHER 5.2.98

I have been told that I am obsessive. That is true. When I am consumed with a passion it is all-encompassing.

Some of my passions burn themselves out.

My art I approached with a fury. I flung paint at canvas as my head burnt with ideas and need.

Then I woke up one day and the cinders merely glowed.

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